Sunday 17th August 2008

We’re packed and ready.

I’ve given the boys their customary hair cut – a number 4 all over - which will, unfortunately, immediately distinguish them from their mullet-styled Swiss peers. I’m not sophisticated enough to manage anything other than a number 4 all over - I started cutting their hair myself last year when we arrived in Zurich after nearly fainting at the apparent cost of small boys’ haircuts (prices of 50CHF were carelessly touted round my circle of friends as quite normal for a boy in Zurich. £25 ? For a short back and sides on a 7 year old ? Are they taking the mick ? I’m not having any of that, I’ll buy a pair of clippers and cut it myself so I can afford my own increasingly necessary highlights). They’ve also – under protest of course – washed their hair, and I’ve cut their nails. It’s a miracle I don’t cut off their fingers, the amount they wriggle, still, aged 9 and 7.

And so to bed, for another night of disturbed sleep and alarming dreams. I haven’t slept properly for several weeks. This night I dream that I’m in a very crowded car being driven by Prince Charles (after a long lunch), he loses control of the car and we end up in a ditch. Make of that what you will, psychologists.

The children, of course, sleep like tops as per usual.